Cold ocean wind whipped through the open seams of the Malibu mansion's terrace. Upstairs, the heavy, alcohol-scented breath of her father rattled in his sleep. Tony Stark had finally knocked himself out after three hours of pacing, his mind a chaotic whirl of calculations and unresolved panic. Scarlet's super-hearing tracked the steady, rhythmic thump of his heart from the floor above. She sat cross-legged on the cold tiled floor of her room, her senses dialed to maximum sensitivity. Every drop of water dripping from the coastal cliffs, every shift in the tectonic plates below the ocean floor, registered in her brain like a sharp physical touch. Living with this level of sensory input was a constant exercise in mental restraint. But tonight, she couldn't afford to tune the world out. Her Supergirl System remained dormant, but the alien power humming within her cells was primed and waiting. Malibu nights were usually defined by the rhythmic crash of the Pacific tide against the cliffs below. Tonight, the ocean felt louder, its deep, churning roar echoing through the cavernous glass-and-steel architecture of the mansion. Scarlet stood near the panoramic window of the living room, her eyes adjusted to the pitch-black darkness. To her eyes, the dark was merely a shade of gray, every detail of the coastline visible as if it were midday. She could see the white foam of the waves breaking over the sharp rocks, and she could see the cold, wet mist clinging to the sheer cliffs. Silence dominated the house, save for the hum of the server racks in the basement. She had spent the last hour monitoring her father's vitals from afar, her super-hearing acting as a constant, reassuring baby monitor. Tony's heartbeat was slow, heavy with the chemical weight of alcohol, but it was steady. His nightmares had finally released their grip on his sleeping mind, leaving him in a deep, undisturbed slumber. She took a slow, deep breath, trying to ease the persistent knot of tension in her chest. Ever since she had been dumped on Tony's doorstep, she had lived with the constant, suffocating fear of being discarded. She wasn't his planned child; she was the product of a forgotten past, a mistake he was forced to accommodate. Every day was a tightrope walk of proving her utility, of being the perfect, brilliant daughter who never caused trouble. But the powers granted by her system made perfection a terrifyingly complicated goal. How could she remain a normal child when she could hear the heartbeats of people miles away? Pretending to be fragile was an exhausting act when her skin could deflect bullets. A subtle vibration ran through the floorboards, so faint that even the house's seismic sensors would have ignored it. Scarlet froze, her head snapping toward the east wing. Electronic hums from the primary server room had pitch-shifted. It was a telltale sign of an external override, a highly sophisticated hardware exploit that bypassed the outer firewalls. She waited for Jarvis to announce the anomaly, but the speakers remained dead. Jarvis was still running, but its sensory inputs were being fed a looped, pre-recorded feed of a quiet, empty house. A professional military strike team had just ghosted their way past one of the most advanced security systems on the planet. They knew exactly what they were doing. They had schematic maps, frequency scramblers, and the kind of high-grade equipment that only governments or massive black-market syndicates could procure. Her pulse quickened, her Kryptonian physiology reacting to the sudden spike of adrenaline. No fear for her own life existed—nothing on this planet could easily hurt her—but she felt an icy, piercing terror for Tony. If these men reached his bedroom, they could kill him before he even had a chance to open his eyes. Allowing them to reach him was out of the question. She would tear the world apart before she let anyone touch him. Stepping onto the cold marble of the main staircase, Scarlet slipped down into the darkness. Gravity felt optional when she willed her body to tread lightly. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not out of fear for her own safety, but from the paralyzing dread of exposure. If Tony woke up and saw her fighting, the fragile peace they had built would vanish. He was already a man drowning in his own anxieties, struggling to raise a child he hadn't planned for. If he discovered she was a cosmic anomaly—a freak with the power to level cities—he would look at her with fear. And fear was the precursor to abandonment. She couldn't lose him. She wouldn't let him cast her out into the cold world that had already rejected her once. Darkness swallowed the kitchen as she slipped behind the polished stainless-steel island. Ozone, damp salt, and the faint, bitter scent of gun oil saturated the air. A microscopic hiss echoed from the ocean-facing glass doors. Four figures slid through the seam, their movements perfectly synchronized, blending into the deep shadows. They wore unmarked, matte-black tactical gear from head to toe. Goggles flared with a faint green luminescence, scanning the room for thermal signatures. They carried compact, highly customized submachine guns, held at a low ready. These weren't common thieves looking for high-end electronics or Tony's prototype designs. They were an extraction team, cold and lethal. One of them raised two fingers, pointing toward the stairs leading to Tony's private quarters. Scarlet's chest tightened. Her protective instincts flared, hot and violent, threatening to override her careful restraint. She had to end this instantly, silently, and without leaving a single trace of her involvement. No bullets could be fired. No structural damage could be left behind. Focusing her vision, she let the world slow down. Time stretched into a thick, syrup-like crawl. His finger began to squeeze his trigger as he caught a glimpse of her silhouette. His eye dilated behind the lens of his goggles, a slow-motion panic registering in his nervous system. To him, Scarlet was nothing but a trick of the light. To her, he was a statue frozen in mid-breath. Pushing off the tile, she closed the distance in a fraction of a millisecond. Air resistance screamed against her skin, but she suppressed the sonic boom, keeping her movement whisper-quiet. She grabbed the barrel of his weapon. With a flick of her wrist, the reinforced steel twisted like warm taffy. Polymer and steel shattered into pieces of useless junk, the firing mechanism imploding silently under her grip. Before he could even register the loss of his gun, she tapped a precise nerve cluster on his neck. His eyes rolled back, and he went limp, drifting toward the floor like a falling leaf. Second mercenary was still in the process of turning his head. Scarlet bypassed his guard, her fingers wrapping around the receiver of his rifle. She squeezed. Metal imploded under her grip, gears popping out like loose teeth. A swift, calculated strike to his solar plexus knocked the wind out of him, sending him into instant unconsciousness. He drifted toward the floor in slow motion beside his comrade. Two left. They realized something was desperately wrong, their heartbeats finally spiking into panic territory as they registered the sudden disappearance of their teammates. Third man tried to sweep his sidearm upward, his muscles moving at agonizingly slow speeds in Scarlet's eyes. Scarlet caught his wrist. Gently, but with unyielding force, she squeezed until the bones in his wrist creaked, forcing him to drop the pistol. She caught the gun before it hit the floor, crushing the firing pin with her thumb. A quick chop to his carotid artery put him down. Fourth mercenary backed away, his hand reaching for a tactical blade at his chest. Scarlet didn't give him the chance. Appearing directly in front of him, she stared straight into his night-vision goggles. His breathing hitched, a sharp gasp of pure terror escaping his throat. She snatched the knife, snapping the high-grade carbon steel blade in half with her bare hands. Sharp metallic pings resonated in the quiet room. She struck his jaw with just enough force to rattle his brain, bypassing his skull structure to avoid leaving a single bruise. He collapsed onto the kitchen rug, joining his comrades in silent sleep. Silence reclaimed the kitchen. Entire encounter had lasted less than two seconds. Her chest heaved, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked down at her hands. They were pristine, unblemished, yet they had just dismantled military-grade weaponry as if it were cheap plastic. A cold sweat broke out across her forehead. What if Tony had walked in? What if he had heard the faint snaps of metal? She glanced toward the stairs, holding her breath. His heartbeat remained steady, slow, and heavily asleep. He was safe. For now. But she couldn't leave these men here. If Jarvis rebooted, or if Tony woke up to get a glass of water, the game would be over. She had to clear the scene. Grabbing two of the heavy, unconscious mercenaries by their tactical vests, she began to drag them toward the rear exit. They felt light as feathers to her, their boots scraping softly against the polished floor. She dragged them out onto the cliffside terrace. Cold ocean wind whipped her hair across her face, smelling of salt and incoming rain. She laid them down near the edge of the cliff, planning to search them for identification. Returning to the kitchen, she grabbed the remaining two men and dragged them out to join the others. Sky was a dark, bruised purple, the stars obscured by heavy storm clouds. She knelt beside the first mercenary, searching his pockets. No ID existed. Dog tags were completely absent. Not a single marking on their high-tech gear indicated an origin. They were ghosts. Moving to the second man, she pulled back his collar to check for hidden cyanide capsules or transponders. Nothing. Third man yielded the same blank results. They had been scrubbed clean of any domestic or foreign military identity. This level of professionalism pointed to something far more dangerous than simple corporate espionage. Her mind raced with possibilities. Could it be AIM? Ten Rings? Or something worse, buried deep within the system? As she drags the last unconscious merc toward the cliffside, she notices a faded tattoo on his neck: a circular crest with a stylized, multi-headed hydra.

Chapter 9: Black Ice in Malibu